


You sleep and don't stir until daybreak

by IllyanaA



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brotherly Love, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Hurt/Comfort, World War II, but none too graphic, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:05:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9072913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IllyanaA/pseuds/IllyanaA
Summary: 29th of December 1940. One of the worst nights of the German Blitz on London and is sometimes referred to as the Second Great Fire.England expected these raids by now, but none so far had felt the same as this. This burning, which he had not experienced since 1666. Thankfully, Scotland was there to help him through the night.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as like a 500 word drabble and got out of hand.  
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes mine. I did a paper this semester while I was in London on the affects of war during the 20th century, and so naturally, I had to do research on the Blitz. And then the aforementioned drabble was born.
> 
> Title comes from the song: Bà i ù o hò.

_29 th of December 1940_

Birmingham. Coventry. The coast. London. He’d endured this for months, this burning, aching pain. Each blow took the wind from him; each crater created caused a seeping wound to open. Night by night it was the same, and it had become a sort of ritual. He’d do his work in the mornings, and then he’d head down to the shelters with the rest of London in the early evening. He didn’t make it to a shelter this time before the first bombs fell—he got stuck in war meetings until late afternoon, only reaching his door just after half five—and now he wished he had stayed in the War Rooms. But he had wanted to spend an evening in his own home, in his own shelter, to seek some sense of normalcy after months of raiding.

The first blow was enough to incapacitate him, his body so weakened by the widespread attacks and his dwindling resources. The morale of his people kept his spirit strong, but there was only so much high spirits could do. They needed a respite from these attacks, and they needed aid.

He hit the wood floor in the entry way, cup of tea rolling out of his hand. _What a waste._ Sirens wailed in his ears, body racking with each explosion. He felt the bombs falling on London, from Islington down to the City. Unable to move, he stayed down on the wood, thankful at least that he hadn’t fallen on a carpet. He wished he could have at least made it to his tub; it would be easier to clean the next day than the floor. He didn’t know how long he’d been laying there, but he could see an orange glow outside a window. He felt each death, each damaged piece of land, until it became overwhelming. And like he did almost every night, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, content to let unconsciousness take him…

Before being stirred again by a pounding at his door. He wondered for a moment who in their right mind would be standing outside during an air raid, before remembering that Scotland had been on his way to London to assist in war planning.

His brother felt no need for discretion as he shouted: “England! Open this damn door. I ken you’re in there because I checked the basement first!”

If it hurt less to breathe, he would have sighed. He wanted to ride out this wave before joining his brother, content to spend his evening bleeding on the floor, only to appear bandaged at the war rooms tomorrow. But Scotland was capable—and likely would—break down his door, barging in with no gentleness, shouting at him as soon as he crossed the threshold. Perhaps invigorated by the desire to save his old wooden door, he dragged himself to his feet, still doubled over in pain, and stumbled across the entry way. No sooner did he get the door open then his brother had his arms hooked under England’s shoulders, dragging him out to his basement.

Scotland hauled him around to the back garden and struggled to get the door open while trying to keep the younger nation upright. By the time they managed the stairs, many of his barely healed wounds had reopened. The elder nation realized this, and deposited him onto the small cot against the back wall. A string of curses let his lips—it took longer that he cared to admit for him to recognize it was in Gàidhlig—and if he’d been coherent enough, he would have fired some of his own back. Instead, England rolled over, hand clutching his chest as his heart burned; a pain he had not felt in almost three hundred years. There must’ve been tears on his cheeks, because he heard a sigh, followed by calloused hands gently moving him to lean on a chest.

“Oh, Albion.”

“Germany will _burn_.” He hissed, leaning in further as another shell fell.

“Aye, he will. And we’ll rise from the ashes.” Scotland settled a hand on the back of his head. “What were you thinking, Sasainn? The last thing you need is to get yourself killed.”

He tried to joke. “Miss me, would you?”

“You’d be back too soon.” His eyes darted around the makeshift shelter. It wasn’t an Anderson, but at least it had been reinforced. “Have you got any bandages down here?”

“In the cupboard.”

The muffled sounds of exploding shells and screaming in the street reminded him of the trenches during the Great War.  He tried to fall asleep, tried to focus on anything but the pain and burning in his chest, but Scotland kept having him move to aid in the bandaging. His brother stayed silent as he worked, face drawn up tight, which itself struck him as unusual. This whole thing felt strange. While he was arguably closest to Scotland of all his brothers—he’d been his primary caretaker as a child—their relationship had been strained at best for the last four or five hundred years. And even though they’d been united for the last two centuries, they made no effort to repair their relationship. Too many wars laid between them. Too much bloodshed. After the end of the Jacobites, Scotland had cursed him, saying one day he hoped that one of his charges betrayed him as England had done to him.

When America left him, after that long bitter war, Scotland had laughed. “I had thought it would’a been one of the Indies, or maybe even Canada. But America? ‘Tis a better revenge than I could have ever planned.”

He stiffened at the memory, and his brother thought he’d aggravated a wound. He kneeled down in front of him. “Sorry, I’ve almost got this done. Just need you to cooperate a bit, _coinean._ Sit up for me. All the way, now.”

Blushing a bit at the old nickname, he let himself be pulled into an upright position, leaning his head forward onto Scotland’s chest. His brother wrapped the remaining bandages around his waist, binding the deepest injuries as tight as he could before shifting to sit beside him on the cot and pulling him with him to lean against the back wall.

If he’d been less exhausted, he would have resisted this coddling. He was an Empire, damn it, and at war or no, he still possessed strength. He hadn’t sought this comfort from his brother during the Plague, the Wars of the Roses, the Civil War, the Fire, or anything after. They weren’t like this. But now, he couldn’t stop his grip tightening on Scotland’s shirt at each bomb-induced convulsion. And his brother, normally not known for his bedside manner, now was gentle and soothing, rough demeanor completely gone as he held him amidst the chaos outside.

 Perhaps the war had changed him, too.

“Alba.” He murmured after a while. “Could you talk?”

 _I just want to hear your voice_ went unsaid. But Scotland seemed to understand, as he fell into a story of England when he was a child: the first time he’d ever picked up a bow. Did it lessen the pain? No, but the rumble of his chest and the sound of his voice were nice distractions. He told one story after another, shifting a little every now again, and running fingers through England’s hair whenever he shook with a particularly violent convulsion. 

He didn’t know what time it was when the bombs finally stopped. As the burning in his chest died down, he felt himself finally able to start to drift towards sleep.

“Our meeting’s not ‘till 11. Sleep for now, Albion.”

He dreaded seeing the destruction in the morning, seeing how much damage the fire had caused with the Thames too low to be used as a water source. But there was nothing he could do about it now, so he let out a few low breaths and closed his eyes, the sound of silent humming lulling him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written Scotland, but I've fallen in love with the idea of the UK brothers as a unit, and how they deal with the tumultuous ties between them.  
> Few Notes:  
> Gàidhlig translations:  
> Sasainn: Old term for England  
> coinean: rabbit
> 
> Alba-name for Scotland  
> Albion: I like to think that perhaps Britannia passed on her names to England.  
> I don't write in dialect because it's hard for me to read and I'm sure I would ruin it, so just imagine Scotland's voice in your head.
> 
>  
> 
> I have immense respect for the people who lived and worked through all of this mess, and for how high spirits remained throughout.


End file.
